


Sanctify

by pogopop



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Catholicism, Depression, Gen, Marvel Universe Big Bang 2019, Matt Murdock Needs a Hug, Matt is a priest, Matt/Foggy endgame, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-14
Updated: 2019-11-14
Packaged: 2021-01-30 22:24:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21435688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pogopop/pseuds/pogopop
Summary: Matt's a priest, and he's not good at it. And then he meets Foggy.
Relationships: Father Lantom & Matt Murdock, Jessica Jones & Matt Murdock, Margaret Murdock & Matt Murdock, Matt Murdock & Franklin "Foggy" Nelson, Matt Murdock/Franklin "Foggy" Nelson
Comments: 23
Kudos: 42
Collections: Daredevil Bingo, Marvel Big Bang 2019





	1. Chapter 1

“Matthew. Matthew!”

“Oh, Jesus.” Matt rubbed his face against the scratchy pillow, crashing back into daytime, lifetime, and under the wave of a hangover. He scrubbed his hand over his face as the feeling of warmth and comfort from his dream receded. Paul rapped insistently on the door again. “I’m up. I’m up,” Matt called, voice cracked. He rolled out of the bed and gathered the blanket around him, padding barefoot across the cold stone flags. He opened the door just far enough for Paul to see him. “Morning.”

There was a long-suffering silence. Then Paul spoke, voice clipped. “Sackcloth? Who died?”

“Har har. What time is it?”

“Two hours until mass. Do something about that jungle on your face, will you? And you need a haircut. Sister Constance said she’d trim it for you today. And brush your teeth. You smell like a distillery.” Matt nodded petulantly, studiously avoiding rolling his eyes. Paul turned to go, then paused. “If you’re quick enough about it I’ll even have a coffee waiting for you.”

“Thank you, Father.” Matt shut the door quietly on Lantom’s huff. He threw back two Tylenol then busied himself with a quick but neat shave, and dressed in his clerical clothes. He ran wet fingers through his unruly hair, flattening it with a comb - Paul was right, he did need a trim. He made his bed neatly - an unbroken habit from institutional living - and sat down on it to buff his shoes with a cloth, then lace them, all the while trying to remember the day’s lesson. Paul had outlined it with him the day before, but the verses were lurking, just out of reach.

Suddenly, Matt felt cloistered. He climbed onto the bed and pushed open the high, narrow window, which opened at alley level, letting in a sharp stream of air, bearing with it exhaust fumes and the sound of feet hurrying along the street, starting the day. He took in a deep breath, feeling the cold air curl in his lungs, and ran a hand quickly over himself, checking buttons and cuffs for respectability. Then he climbed off the bed, grabbed his glasses from the small table beside the door, and slipped out of his room, pulling to the heavy oak door behind him.

Matt followed the smell of coffee, from the dungeon _ (‘It’s a basement, Matthew. Don’t be dramatic.’) _along the narrow corridor, up the flagged stairs, left turn into the wide and breezy hallway, towards the church hall where Paul was fussing with the coffee machine, meticulously cleaning the steam wand. Matt plonked himself down on a plastic chair and stretched his legs out, hands shoved deep in his pockets and head resting on the seat back.

“Coffee,” Paul said, setting the cup down on the table top. “Readings.” There was a rustle of paper as he laid some pages beside the cup, then sat down opposite Matt. Matt lifted his hand in a mock salute, and reached for the cup, wrapping his hands around it and feeling the seeping warmth. His head felt gummy and thick, and the Tylenol had yet to kick in.

“Are you going to pull it together in time to take confession this afternoon?” Paul asked, wry.

“Certainly, Father.” Matt gathered the pages off the table and put them in his lap so he could read through them with one hand, keeping one for his coffee mug.

“The new choirmaster has switched practice days. He’ll be running choir rehearsal at 6pm today.” Paul was filling his coffee cup with far too much sugar, as per usual.

“Choirmaster? What about Sister James?”

“She’s decided to take a vow of silence, which doesn’t mesh well with running the choir.” Paul swirled his teaspoon through the hot liquid in his cup, then tapped it on the rim.

Matt shrugged. “Doesn’t really affect me, either way, who's in charge. Have I met him?”

“I don’t know, Matthew. Have you?”

Matt frowned at Paul’s tone, blowing over his coffee. “What’s his name?” he asked.

“Franklin Nelson. Why don’t you take the time to meet him, this afternoon.”

Matt shook his head. “Doesn’t ring a bell. You want me to read all of these?”

Paul sighed. “Yes, Matthew, all of them. How are the altar servers going?”

“Some of the pre-teens seem to be getting bored, and I think we’ll need another recruitment drive for young ones, so I guess I’ll go charm the Sunday school teacher, again,” Matt said. “Still the same core team of adults. There’s a full roster for the next month, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“It’s not top of my list, no.”

Matt’s attention was caught by the sound of familiar footsteps hurrying down the corridor towards the hall. He straightened up slightly, shuffling the papers on his lap. “Maggie’s coming.”

Paul cursed quietly under his breath, and Matt stifled a laugh.

Maggie burst into the room with a swish of clothing. “Fathers,” she said, striding over to stand beside them, hands tucked into her sleeves.

“Good morning, Sister Maggie,” Paul said. “Would you like a coffee?”

“No, thank you,” she said, sharply. There was a moment of silence that stretched slightly longer than was comfortable, in which Matt imagined he was being examined and looks were being exchanged.

Matt turned to Maggie and smiled. “How can we help you, Sister?”

“It’s the fuses. They’ve blown out again. The church is dark.”

“How dark?” Matt asked.

“Dark enough that some parishioners are going to struggle to read their hymnals. It’s the old wiring.” She sighed. ”Father Lantom, I’m visiting the Martino family this afternoon. Mr Martino is home now, and it’s only a matter of time. With her daughter working two jobs, and the three grandchildren, Mrs Martino is under so much pressure, and I’ve gathered together some supplies for the family. Perhaps you could join me?

“Of course. Is it time for last rites?”

“Not yet, I think. Mrs Martino said he would like to talk.”

Paul nodded. “How is the donation pantry looking?”

“We’re making do,” Maggie said, voice guarded.

“The budget is already so stretched,” Paul said. “But God never sends us challenges beyond what we can bear. I’ll see if we can get an electrician before the service.”

“Well, the dark’s not going to bother me, much,” Matt supplied with a shrug.

“Lucky you,” Paul said, rising and clapping Matt on the shoulder. “Let’s see the damage,” he said to Maggie.

“Sister Constance asked me to tell you she’ll be here in a minute with her scissors, Father,” Maggie told Matt on her way out.

**____** **_**

The choirmaster seemed reasonably good. At any rate, the children were attentive, and there wasn’t too much shuffling and whispering 

Matt stood quietly in the north corridor, behind the quire. He knew the corridor was dimly lit, having startled more than one sister here in the past, and he wouldn’t be visible to the choir.

Nelson cleared his throat, and the children hushed. Sandra, the organist, sprang to attention and started into one of their regular hymns. The choir sang with gusto, and passable co-ordination. Maybe it wouldn’t be too disastrous.

The next, very familiar, song went well. Having satisfied himself that he could leave the rehearsal to proceed without priestly intervention, Matt moved through into the cloister. Here, the city sounds were still muffled by the thick stone walls, but the air was fresh. The air was, in fact, freezing. Matt leaned against the sill of an open window arch and crossed his arms over his chest, pretending not to shiver.

Two sisters, Constance and a postulant Matt didn’t know, approached from his right. He nodded at them, as Constance said, “Afternoon, Father.”

Matt listened to their progress down the corridor, as the novitiate asked who he was. Constance’s reply was a simple, “That’s Father Matthew. He has excellent hearing, so mind your manners. Come now.”

Matt stayed, shivering, several more minutes. At least feeling cold meant he was alive. Then he sighed, checked the time and re-entered the church. He walked down the north aisle then turned and passed between two pews, skimming a hand along the wall then across the top of the pew as he walked. The choir rehearsal was winding down, and Matt heard the sound of children’s sneakered feet, moving faster than was suitable for the house of God - Luke and Danny were running down the central aisle, and Matt quickened his pace. He reached out quickly and grabbed Danny, who was in front, by the collar as he went to dart past. Luke skidded to a stop, nearly crashing into them, and Matt released Danny.

“No running in the church, boys,” Matt said, sternly.

“Sorry, Father,” they replied in unison.

Matt arranged his features into a more neutral expression. “Why are you here today?”

“Oh, uh, we… We joined the choir.” Luke said, then added, “Father.”

“Yeah,” Danny said. “I’m a soprano, and Luke’s a tenor.”

Matt frowned. “Does that mean you’re no longer going to help me as altar servers?”

There was a pause, as the two boys turned their heads to look at each other, then back at Matt. “I don’t know,” Danny said. “Mr Nelson just asked us to join the choir, and it was pretty fun.”

“Do you want to stay in the choir?”

“Yes, Father,” they replied in unison.

“I suppose that’s decided, then,” Matt said. “Just make sure you help me when you’re rostered, though, and after the end of the month you can be off altar duty. Alright?”

“Yes, Father,” said Luke.

Danny nodded, and when Luke kicked him he said, “Oh, uh, yes, Father. Sorry Father. My mom’s waiting. May we be excused?”

“Off you go,” Matt said, waving them away. He carried on with his intended route and crossed the aisle towards the confessional. Seating himself in his compartment, he listened to the organist and choirmaster chatting and sorting their music. It sounded like Nelson had some plans to change the musical lineup. Sandra sounded less than convinced with what he was showing her.

Concerns about the repertoire aside, the two of them seemed to have easy enough communication. Nelson chattered away and teased Sandra, in a manner that was the polar opposite to that of Sister James. Maybe her vow of silence would do everyone good.

**_____**

Matt was warm and comfortable. He came awake slowly, perception seeping in. There was a fire burning merrily in a grate nearby, crackling comfortingly and filling the back of his throat with a smoky taste. He could smell the rich scent of garlic cooking, and red wine in a glass on the coffee table, near his elbow. Someone was stirring the garlic and onions, with bacon, humming a cheerful tune. Matt frowned. He couldn’t tell who the cook was. He focused carefully, trying to zone in on a familiar scent or sound or way of moving, but it all slipped away from him, intangible.

Then Matt jerked awake, rough blankets scratching at his cheek. He lay very still for several moments, trying to fix as much of the dream as possible in his mind. The lingering memory, the part he really wanted to bottle, was a feeling of being cared for by someone else, a warm human. Something that a priest shouldn’t crave.

Matt rolled onto his back with a groan. There was no hangover today, but his body felt bruised.He thought back to the previous night, to the bastards he’d tracked to the docks, smuggling illegal weapons into Hell’s Kitchen. They wouldn’t be causing any trouble again for a while, recovering from their injuries in Police custody - or possibly in a hospital. Matt couldn’t remember exactly how much force he’d used, but as he flexed his fingers and felt gently over his bruised knuckles, he considered that it might have been more than was strictly necessary.

He shoved aside the horrible blankets and placed his feet on the cold floor. Everything about his dungeon was uncomfortable. He bent over, resting his face in his hands and feeling the cold air prick at his skin. He thought forward to the day ahead of him, of Paul’s disappointment, Maggie’s stern cajoling, to ritual and confession and how truly terrible a priest he was, how he wasn’t really helping people.

And in that moment, he finally faced the reality that there was much of his existence that he hated. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep it up.


	2. Chapter 2

Maggie was never truly gentle. Her movements were quick and efficient, smooth and practiced. She was kind, patient and sarcastically humorous, yes, but not gentle. Her voice always carried an edge, which sharpened when she was speaking to Matt. When she was tending his wounds, the edge sharpened all the further.

She finished wiping the last of the grit out of the graze on his shoulder and applied a swab soaked in disinfectant. Matt hissed at the sting.

“Good night out?” she asked.

Matt closed his eyes briefly, and thought how best to answer. Eventually he settled on, “Effective.”

Maggie hummed in non-committal response, as she fished out a gauze dressing and taped it in place. She didn’t offer further comment, and Matt realised she was trying to draw him into speaking. He wasn’t sure he had the energy to deflect her tonight. She gathered her materials, turning away towards the sink. 

He reached behind him and plucked up his shirt from where he’d slung it over the back of the chair he was sitting on, smoothing it across his knees. It was criss crossed with lines of mending, a lasting reminder of injuries he’d received, some of which had healed without trace, some of which had left deep scars on his skin. 

“This shirt is almost beyond stitching. It’s more seams than fabric,” he observed.

She turned and looked at him for a moment. “It’s pretty ratty.”

“Maybe it’s time for a new one.”

“Matthew,” she said, then stopped herself and inhaled sharply.

He tilted his head, inviting her to continue.

She let her breath out, slowly. Then said, “I don’t want to tell you what to do.” 

“That’s never stopped you before.” 

“Touché,” she said, laughing. Then she sobered. “I still can’t reconcile why you do this to yourself.”

He sighed. “We’ve been over this. It’s not about me, or the injuries. It’s so I can do something real, so I can make a difference.”

“You’re a priest!” she cried. “You don’t think doing God’s work makes a difference?”

He suddenly felt deeply, completely exhausted. “I think that it should.” She made a short, frustrated noise. “Sister, please,” he said.

She bent a rifled through a clean basket of laundry, and pulled out an item which she threw at him.

He caught it, then stood and started pulling on the clean shirt she’d found for him. His shoulder muscles ached.

“You know,” she said, thoughtfully, “If your body is a temple, which _ I know _ you believe it is, I think it could do with maintenance.”

He laughed, despite himself. “You’re probably right.”

“Hey, Murdock.” Matt turned his head sharply at the sound of Jess’ voice. She was speaking quietly, knowing he’d always hear her. She was in the alley outside his chamber, although they were in the laundry room - it wouldn’t do to have a Sister in his dorm, even one who had raised him almost the way a mother might.

“What is it?” Maggie asked.

“Jess. She’s outside, waiting for me.”

“Jessica Jones? She can always come in here.”

“You know she won’t, Maggie,” he said, turning to face her.

“There’s nothing stopping her.”

“I don’t know that she’d agree with that sentiment,” he said, with a wry smile.

“The church accepts everyone, as you well know,” she said, somewhat primly.

“I’m not the one who needs convincing, Sister,” Matt said, gently. “I know you would like to see her.”

She made a dismissive noise, and turned away. Matt moved a little closer. 

“She… she’s not who she was when she was a teen. When you knew her,” he tried to explain.

“Matthew, we call carry the scars of life. And we are all deserving of forgiveness.”

“Of course. But we need to choose to seek it. I’m not sure that Jess will ever look for absolution in the church.”

“Where does she think she’ll find it? The bottom of a bottle?”

Matt shrugged and walked towards the stairs. “I don’t think she’s searching there. I’d better go. She doesn’t like it when I keep her waiting. Thanks for the patch up.”

**_____**

Matt swirled the whisky in his glass, listening to Jess as she sorted through her pile of photos, describing the more juicy ones for him.

“Why are people so dumb, Murdock? Just screwing around without even bothering to close the curtains.”

“Beats me.” He took a mouthful of whiskey, thankful that he’d brought his own around to her apartment, tucked discreetly in a satchel. Her bourbon was not too far removed from paint stripper. “What about sheer curtains? Gauze, or net. Do people not have those any more?”

“Some do. They’re enough to stop a positive ID, anyway. But the number of people who don’t close their curtains at all still amazes me. Fucking idiots.”

“Gratitude, Jess. It makes your job easier.”

“Shut it, Father.”

“You want to lose your pillow?”

“No,” she said, wriggling deeper into the couch, head cushioned on his stomach. Matt himself was sprawled nearly horizontal as well. He was tempted to smooth her hair back from her forehead, but knew it would make her snap at him. Still, she had allowed their current closeness and that counted as a win.

“Sister Maggie’s been on a gratitude bender, lately, as she keeps reminding me." He took another drink. "She was asking after you this evening.”

“Sister Maggie? That old crone? How is she still alive?”

“She’s not that old, Jess.”

“She looked like a walnut, last I saw her.”

“I’m sure she didn’t. She doesn’t sound that old.” Matt said thoughtfully, “She could be an ex-smoker, maybe, but she’s not ancient.”

“Ex-smoker?” Jess tilted her head up, craning to look at him. “I bet she sneaks rollies out the back.” She sat up slightly and took a pull from the bottle, placing it back on the floor beside her.

“She never smells of it,” Matt said with a shrug. “She’s younger than Lantom, anyway.”

“There’s another dinosaur.” Jess relaxed back, sinking into the couch, head returning to Matt’s stomach.

“Paul’s not bad. He’s a good guy.”

“He’s a priest.”

“So am I.”

“Yeah, but you are a terrible priest. And you share your alcohol with me, so that makes you tolerable.” 

Matt raised his glass. “To being tolerable.” 

Jess lifted the bottle and reached up, clinking it against his glass. “One of the very few.” She whistled. “You should see this one. It’s the yoga teacher and I don’t know how she got in that position-”

Matt let out a low growl. “Remember that priest bit? Sins of the flesh...”

Jess threw the photos onto the coffee table, then sat up and swung her legs off the couch. She stretched, back popping. “Speaking of sins of the flesh, I need to get laid,” she said. Matt snorted. She took a long swig from the bottle then pointed the neck at Matt. “Not as badly as you, but still. I think I’m going to go out and score.”

“I guess that’s my cue to leave,” Matt said, standing and retrieving his glasses and cane from the coffee table before heading to the door.

Jess stood up, curtain of hair swinging around her as she reached for her leather jacket. “Yeah, get out of here. Go back to your gloomy dungeon to think about your life choices, in the dark.”

“The dark makes no difference to me,” Matt said, reaching for the door handle.

“I know. So creepy.”

“That’s ableist,” he said, pausing in the open door and grinning towards her.

“Still creepy.”

“Keep the bottle, Jess. See you later.”

She slammed the door behind him, and he heard her mutter, “Yeah, yeah,” under her breath.

**_____**

  
  


Matt could hear the choir master dithering, to the side and slightly behind him. He kept his face forward, towards the altar, as Nelson edged closer.

“Excuse me, Father Matthew?”

Matt turned half way towards the man, eyebrows raised in question.

“I’m Foggy Nelson, the choir master.” Nelson sounded slightly nervous, and far too upbeat.

Matt nodded, saying nothing.

“I, uh,” Nelson continued. “I printed out this list of new songs. For you and Father Lantom, to, uh, look over. Some of them are new, and while I don’t want to offend anyone I’d really like to get some more modern music into the services. To appeal to the younger crowd, you know?”

Matt held out his hand to receive the piece of paper Nelson was worrying between his fingers. It was printed, so he placed it in his lap, smoothing his palm over it. “I hear you’ve been poaching my altar servers.”

“What?”

“Luke and Danny. They tell me they’ve joined your choir, so they won’t be able to assist me in services any more.”

“Oh, shit. Oh, sorry, Father!” Nelson was quiet for a moment. “I didn’t realise. They just showed up at choir practice, and they were surprisingly good, so they slotted right in, which was really handy because we were a bit light on sopranos. They didn’t tell me they had another job. I didn’t mean to steal them. I’m sorry.”

Matt waved away the apology. “It’s not the end of the world, but please speak to me first, next time.”

Nelson nodded. “Okay. So, uh, the songs. I have to apologise for not having access to a braille printer.”

Matt shrugged, and tapped the paper with a finger. “I’ll go over them with Father Lantom, later.”

“I can read them to you if you want. Mind if I take a seat?”

Matt shook his head, gesturing to the pew beside him and Nelson sat down next to Matt, the fabric of his trousers slipping over the smooth wood. He went through the list, naming each song, humming the melodies, some of which were distinctly unlike the old and creaking hymns that had been their standard fare for the last several years. He had a tuneful baritone voice, and Matt could hear the appeal of some of the songs. He wasn’t sure which way Paul would go on them. 

Eventually, after about half a dozen tunes, Nelson stopped and said, “So that’s it.”

“That’s less than I was expecting.”

“That’s it  _ for now _ ,” Nelson amended. “I don’t want to freak out Father Lantom.” 

Matt bristled. “Father Lantom is quite progressive.”

“Oh yeah, I’m not saying he isn’t, it’s just… I can be a lot sometimes, and I don’t want to step on any toes. And seeing as I’ve already done that with the altar servers…” Nelson stood up. “Well. I’ll, uh, leave you to it, Father, and you can let me know what you both think. Here’s the list.”

Matt held out his hand to receive the paper again. “Thank you, Franklin.”

“Oh, please call me Foggy. Everyone does.”

Matt’s eyebrow twitched upwards in surprise. “Foggy it is,” he said, and pulled his mouth into an approximation of a smile, that was probably closer to a grimace.

“Okay, thanks Father. See you later.” Matt listened to Nelson’s footsteps, hurrying away down the aisle, and the muttered hiss, “Foggy, you dick, now he thinks you’re an idiot.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to SleepyMoritz for beta work and cheerleading!
> 
> Comments are the best.


	3. Chapter 3

Foggy was too nice. It made Matt uncomfortable. He joked with the children, and encouraged them, was kindly firm with the adults, and they all responded by singing their hearts out. The practices were happy, light, and musically deft.

All too often, Matt found himself lurking out of sight while they rehearsed, leaning against a wall with his eyes closed. The music was good. It was very good, and it made Matt’s stomach twist.

Today, the choir were working on a new song, which they’d started the week before. It was modern and upbeat, with interweaving melodies and rich harmonies. The final, unison note was held for a semibreve, then cut off sharply, its echo resonating through the vault of the ceiling. Matt felt almost dizzy.

Foggy clapped, laughing. “That was spectacular! Good work, everyone. I think we’re done. Remember to wrap up warm and look after those voices. See you Sunday, a half hour before the service.”

Foggy quietly asked Carl Martino to stay behind, and Matt felt a frisson of concern. He prepared himself to step around the corner and interrupt whatever inappropriate suggestion Nelson was going to make.

But Foggy handed Carl a bag, and told him to give it to his grandmother. The bag was warm, and the scent of chicken pie wafted through the air.

At first, Carl made no move to take it, but then Foggy said, “Please, Carl. My mom made it, and if I bring it home she’ll kick my ass. She’s scary when I don’t do what she says.”

Carl giggled nervously and took the bag with a quiet, “Thank you, Mr. Nelson.”

“No problem, Carl. See you Sunday.”

A small act of kindness, that’s all it was. Something that might make a difference for one family.

Matt thought that next time, he’d take a seat in a pew to listen. Maybe.

**_____**

Matt danced on his toes around the bag. He shook out his weary arms, droplets of sweat flicking from his fingertips.

He should be grateful. Grateful that he was in a position to help people. Grateful to God’s servant. Grateful to the church that had sheltered and kept him for fifteen years. But he was just angry. Nothing he did felt helpful, or constructive.

He lifted his hands high again - two quick left jabs then a right uppercut, moving sideways as he hit, the leather supple and minimally yielding. Each strike, each grunt, emptying him a little more of the frustration and anger that he had barely kept in check all day. With a shout to expel the last of his rage, he spun on one foot, leaping to connect one heel with the top of the bag. Just like he’d done with the head of that rapist, last night.

Matt bent over at the waist, hands on knees, panting as stinging sweat dripping into his eyes and forced them closed. Then he stood and took a deep, cleansing breath, tipping his head back.

He felt empty, finally. In a way that no amount of prayer or repentance ever brought.

**_____**

Matt liked supervising the children in the playground of the school attached to the orphanage. There were considerably more children on the roll than just those in the care of the nuns and they spanned the years from kindergarten to Grade 5, which made at times for an explosive situation.

When things were getting a little rowdy, Matt had only to walk a few steps out into the space and stand, feet apart and hands around the grip of his cane, for the hubbub to subside ever so slightly. The children would whisper to each other that he was there, and to watch it. The orphanage residents had told the day kids stories of Father Matt finding bullies in corridors and secluded spaces, of knowing exactly what this person had said and how they had said it, and his reputation had ballooned accordingly.

Today, things were settled, the shrieks and laughter not serving to conceal any undercurrent of discord. Matt took a seat on a bench in the weak warmth of the sun, and closed his eyes, still scanning the playground for any disturbances.

A child drew near, stopping a short distance away. It was Carl Martino. Yesterday, when Paul returned from his daily visit to Mr Martino, he’d said to Matt, “Some things are painful to witness.”

“Father?” Carl asked.

Matt turned and smiled at the boy. “Hello, Carl.”

“That seat looks nice.”

“It is. Would you like to sit?” Matt gestured at the bench beside him, and Carl took two steps then turned and hopped up. He swung his legs, his toes scraping the asphalt.

“How did you know who I was?” Carl asked.

“Everyone’s voice is different, Carl,” Matt said. “I recognised yours.”

“You did?”

Matt nodded. “Why don’t you try closing your eyes and listening?”

Carl was obediently silent for several moments, then he said, “All I hear is everyone playing.”

“What about me? Do you know my voice?”

“Yes, but I saw you sitting there so I knew it was you.”

“I suppose that’s true, but I’m sure you know your mom’s voice. Voices are like faces, to me. They’re all so different,” Matt said. Carl made an unconvinced noise, so Matt changed the topic. “Are you enjoying choir, Carl?”

“I guess. Mr. Nelson is pretty fun.” Carl’s toes scuffed the ground again.

“Is he? That’s good. He’s a good cook, too, right?”

Carl laughed. “His mom is. Sometimes she makes too much food, which is great because he gives me the leftovers. And my mom is usually too tired to cook when she gets home from work. Father,” he said, “What’s your other job?”

“My other job?” Matt asked, resisting the urge to run his fingers over his bruised knuckles.

“Yeah. The job you do when you’re not being a priest.”

“I… I’m always a priest.”

“But don’t you have another job, so you have enough money for things like food?”

“Oh, well, it’s a little different for me. I live in the church, so I don’t pay rent, and I have enough for food. Why do you ask?”

“My mom has two jobs. She works all the time, but we never have enough money.”

Matt smiled again, sadly this time. “Money is a difficult thing for a lot of people, Carl. Sometimes it’s better to think about the things you do have, than the things you don’t. What are some of the things you have?”

“I’ve got my toy cars.”

“That sounds like fun. What do you do with your cars?”

“I race them. Sometimes, they smash together. The red one usually wins.”

Matt laughed. “Red ones always go faster. Can you think of other things you have?”

“I don’t really have anything else. Just my clothes.”

“What about people?”

“People?”

“You have sisters, your mom and your grandparents. You have some very precious things.”

“Yeah but… They’re just my family.”

“And they love you, Carl.”

“Love doesn’t put food on our table,” Carl said, startling Matt with his childish perception.

“Sometimes,” Matt said, “God sets challenges for us, and we don’t know the reasons. We just have to trust in His plan.”

“But Father.” Carl sounded hesitant, and he leaned towards Matt. “God knows everything about us, doesn’t he?”

“He does.”

“And he gives us talents, like being brainy.”

“He does.”

“And he likes us to use our talents?” Matt nodded in affirmation, and Carl continued. “So, if he knows me and my family, and what I’m good at, doesn’t he expect me to do the things I’m good at, especially if it helps my family?”

“I believe so,” Matt said, slowly.

Carl sat back again, his back hitting the wall with a gentle thump. “That sounds simple,” he said, toes scuffing the asphalt again.

“It does, doesn’t it?”

“Did your parents have a lot of money? Is that why you’re a priest?”

“No, Carl. We never had much. And then I came to live here, at the orphanage.”

“What about your family?”

“I. I never had a lot of family, just my dad. But now, I have the church. And my sister.”

“Sister? Like Sister Maggie?”

Matt laughed. “No, not one of the Sisters. My sister’s name is Jess, and she’s not a nun. You haven’t met her.”

“Does she look like you?”

Matt shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

“Did she live in the orphanage, too?”

“She did, but now she lives somewhere else.”

Matt wasn’t really enjoying the direction the conversation had taken. The years he’d spent with Jess, sharing illicit beer and sneaking in and out of the orphanage when he could hear that the coast was clear, thinking of but not talking about their lost families, was not something he wanted to share with anyone.

Mercifully, the bell rang, signalling the end of lunch hour. Carl launched himself off the bench, with a “Bye, Father!” thrown over his shoulder, and in moments the playground was empty.

**_____**

The steam wand hissed and spat, giving an objecting screech as Lantom turned it off. He carried the two cups, rattling slightly on their saucers, over to the table.

Matt pulled a flask from his pocket and poured a slug of whiskey into his mug, pocketing the flask again. The coffee was hot, but he took a large gulp.

“Feeling Irish today?” Paul asked.

“Something like that,” Matt replied, taking a sip and enjoying the mingled tastes. “Better than all that sugar you put in yours.”

“Touché.” Paul said, heaping a spoonful into his cup. “What’s on your mind, Matthew?”

Matt blew on his coffee and drank it more slowly.

“Who said I had anything on my mind?”

Paul sighed and placed his teaspoon delicately on his saucer. “The older I get, the less I feel like playing these games.”

Matt took off his glasses, tossing them on the table before rubbing a hand over his face. “Can we not do this. Please, Paul.”

Paul was silent for several moments. Eventually, he said, “I’ve never let you wriggle out of a conversation before. What makes you think I’m going to start now?”

Matt shook his head, pushed the dregs of his coffee away, and pulled out the flask again, taking a long pull. Then he leaned forward, turning his face towards Paul. “How long have you been a priest?”

“Oh, it must be… 43 years.”

“How have you lasted so long?” Matt turned away, sipping his whisky again.

“You make it sound like a sentence,” Paul said. Matt said nothing, waiting for Paul to continue. “Do you really need me to explain the difference between a vocation and a job?”

“No.”

“Well. Then where are you on this? You know the job description.”

“Job?”

“Ha.” Paul waved a conceding finger in the air. “I’ll allow you that one. But the time you spend here, with the people who come to you, means a great deal. You could be spending more time helping people, if you weren’t always off getting your ears boxed.”

“I can’t help anyone if they’re dead.”

“No, but you know as well as I do that we’re here to serve the living. Once they pass on, they’re in God’s hands.”

“Then why do I feel this way? So useless.” Matt took another slug of whisky.

Paul was silent for a few seconds, then let out a breath and spread his hands, palms up. “I don’t know what you want me to say. You’re far from useless. But this is something you need to work out for yourself. Preferably before you drink yourself to death.”

“I’m fine,” Matt said, closing the flask’s cap tightly, and sliding it in his pocket.

“Whatever you decide, Father Matthew, spare us the theatrics.”

**_____**

Moving through the ritual of setting up for a service was centering for Matt. He had taken over this job completely from Paul, claiming that it was because he couldn’t trust anyone else to put things away in exactly the same place every time. In reality, it was the routine and order that he craved. He’d trained Paul into placing things exactly in their allocated places during the service. Similarly, Matt was always the one to tidy up, after the parishioners had left. Today he had avoided the post-service cup of tea, instead attending his reordering job earlier than usual.

Which was why being unable to locate the small silver bell used during the consecration of the eucharist was both destabilising and concerning. He knew that it should be right here, under his fingers, but it wasn’t. He paused, scanning the area, but couldn’t locate it. There was plenty of other silver around, in the candlesticks and bowls, but nothing that sang with the note of that bell. Matt frowned. There were only two possibilities: Someone had moved it, or someone had taken it.

He located Maggie and Paul in the basement kitchen where they were doing the dishes and ribbing each other gently. If Jessca was Matt’s sister, Maggie was Paul’s. Both sounded bemused when he told them about the missing bell.

He could tell that Paul thought he may have been careless - or slightly intoxicated, and he wouldn’t argue that point - but Maggie seemed to have an abiding trust in his abilities.

They had just agreed that Paul and Maggie would go and look together, when Foggy entered, standing awkwardly near the doorway. He was clutching a sheaf of papers, tucked inside a plastic sleeve.

“Hello, Franklin,” Paul said. Foggy’s breath caught slightly - he clearly disliked his given name.

“Hello Fathers, Sister. Great service today. I really enjoyed it, Father Paul.”

“Thank you. What can we do for you?”

“I’ve got the Christmas repertoire here,” Foggy said, lofting the papers. “Is now a good time?

“Certainly.”

Foggy spread the papers across the nearby tabletop. “These four are classics, that we’ve always done here,” he said, pointing. “But these ones are all new. Here’s the sheet music.”

Paul picked up a sheet of paper and held it in front of his face. When he spoke, Matt could hear his frown. “I’m afraid I don’t read music very well.”

“Oh.” Foggy sounded disappointed. “I could hum it? Or… There isn’t a piano in the church, is there?”

“No, there isn’t,” Paul said.

Matt shifted his weight. “That’s not entirely true,” he said, without meaning to. All heads turned to him, and he found himself floundering. “I mean, we both know where it is, Paul.”

Maggie made a small noise, that from anyone else Matt would have called a snort.

“Yes, but,” Paul said. He dropped the sheet and gestured at the table. “Do you want to review this with Franklin, Matthew? Music’s more your thing.”

“Yeah, sure,” Matt said, with a shrug. “Are you two okay to follow up with… the issue?”

“I’m sure we’re capable,” Maggie said dryly. “Off you go.”

Matt nodded. “Let’s go, Foggy. I’ll show you the piano.”

Foggy followed Matt down the wide hallway, making a small noise of surprise when Matt turned right down the narrow stairway. “I hadn’t noticed this,” Foggy said.

“Not many people come down here,” Matt said. He gestured in the direction of the laundry. “It’s mostly the domain of the sisters. Here we are.” He pushed open the heavy oak door to his chamber, and walked over to stand beside the upright piano, where it stood against the back wall.

Fogy was hovering in the doorway, and Matt turned towards him, gesturing to the piano. “Come in, please.”

“I, uh.” Foggy coughed, nervously. “It’s really dark in here. Sorry, that’s-”

“Oh, I forgot,” Matt said, and reached up to turn on the wall lamp over the piano. He shrugged apologetically. “I never turn on the lights.”

“I guess not. Is this a guest bedroom?” Foggy asked, head turning to look around the room as he walked towards the piano..

Matt laughed. “No, it’s just my room.”

“Man, you are tidy! But hey, a piano in your room is pretty sweet.” Foggy propped his music on the stand and sat down on the bench, lifting the lid from the keys. He played some experimental chords then stopped and shuffled his papers. “Okay, then. Here’s the first one. Beware I’m out of practice.”

He picked his way through the melody, singing along to the tune. Matt knew this one, and when he joined in Foggy laughed delightedly. “I didn’t know you were a singer.”

“A priest who doesn’t sing? I don’t think I would have made it through Seminary.”

Foggy laughed again. “So, what do you think?”

Matt nodded. “Good choice. What’s next?”

Foggy slid out another sheet of music, and resettled himself on the bench. Again, he started with right handed chords, then moved on to teasing out the melody. He wasn’t a particularly skilled pianist, but he seemed to be able to find the tune without too many missteps. His voice more than made up for any lack of technical fingerwork. Foggy’s left hand remained in his lap, and after a moment Matt found his own hand rising to the keys, adding in a bass line.

“He plays!” Foggy said. Matt smiled broadly at him. Music was a central part of worship at their church, and something that had been in Matt’s life as long as he could remember. It was comfortable.

Foggy sang the last few lines of the song, and the corners of Matt’s mouth curled up in a smile again. “Have you had formal training?” he found himself asking.

“Not so much in piano, obviously,” Foggy said. “But I took vocal lessons for a while, and I minored in Musical Theatre. It’s more of a hobby, really.” Foggy lifted his hands from the keys, clasping them in his lap.

“What’s your work?” Matt asked.

“Oh. Ah, right now I’m working for my parents. Just living at home, saving up, considering my options. You know.” Matt didn’t, but he nodded anyway. “My parents have a butchery. Nelson’s Meats?”

Matt knew the place, although a butcher’s wasn’t somewhere he’d ever visit willingly. “Is that it?”

“What? Is a butcher’s not good enough for you?” Foggy sounded affronted, although he was clearly trying to hide it.

Matt shook his head. “No, I’m not above anything.” He gestured at the piano. “I was talking about the songs. I thought there were more than two?”

“Yes, yes there are. Get ready to be wowed, Father.”

“Do your worst,” Matt said, then took a step back and sat down on the edge of his cot. There wasn’t much space at all in his chamber, and the physical proximity to Foggy was making him feel odd. Unbalanced. And whatever else he might have going on in his head, Matt was not used to feeling unbalanced.

As he hummed and sang along to the music, inexpertly coaxed out of his piano, Matt found himself relaxing into the feeling. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant. Other than with Jess, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d found himself enjoying the company of another person. He was so often around other people - Paul and Maggie with their quiet disapproval, parishioners coming to him for spiritual guidance, the street criminals into whose flesh he branded his calling card - but it was seldom comfortable. Here, on an unremarkable Sunday afternoon, he was feeling an unexpected ease with this person he barely knew. He didn’t understand it at all. He found himself shuffling back, leaning against the wall with his arms resting on his tented knees, face tipped slightly upwards.

Eventually, Foggy finished. He shuffled his papers together and slid them into their folder then turned his face and shoulders towards Matt and clapped once. “So, that’s it. Whaddya think, Father?”

Matt thought several things, very quickly, but none of them were what Foggy was asking, and none were appropriate to share. He nodded, slowly, and slid forward until he was perched on the edge of the bed, placing his feet on the floor. “I think it’s solid. Do the choir have the capability?”

“Yeah, I think they do.” Foggy sounded cheery, and certain.

“Alright then. Consider this the official go-ahead.”

“Great!” Foggy stood, and stepped out from behind the bench as Matt also rose to his feet. “Hey, you hungry? Wanna grab a bite at the diner around the corner?”

Matt frowned in confusion. “Is there something you’d like to talk about?”

“No, I just thought you might be hungry.” Matt was, but he wasn’t sure what the subtext was, here. Was there something Foggy wanted to offload? He hadn’t confessed to Matt before, always seeming to come in when Paul was in the confessional. But the location never really mattered.

Matt checked his watch. “Sounds good,” he said. “I’ve got a couple of things to do before I can leave, like change out of this cassock, so I’ll meet you at the diner in half an hour?”

“Okay, buddy,” Foggy said, patting Matt on the upper arm.

Buddy. That was a new idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to SleepyMoritz for beta work and cheerleading!
> 
> Comments make the world go round.


	4. Chapter 4

Matt opened the door from the vestry, and almost collided with Sister Maggie as she hurried along the corridor. “Woah!” he said, putting out a steadying hand and grasping her by the upper arm. 

“Sorry.” She sounded harried. Then she looked up at him and made a noise of exasperation. “No. No way.”

“What?” Matt asked.

“You absolutely cannot lead a Mass looking like that.”

“Like what?” Matt smoothed his hands over his stole, and down his cassock. It all felt perfectly tidy.

“Like you beat on strangers for fun. Come with me.” She turned and strode towards the laundry.

“Sister…” Matt started, but she just walked faster. 

“You may have a poor sense of self-preservation, but you will not bring suspicion and disrepute onto the rest of us. Get moving, Murdock.” Matt followed her across the room, trying not to listen as she muttered under her breath. She pointed to the alcove where she usually administered first aid. “Sit your ass down. Glasses off.”

Matt sat. For her to have brought him here, shortly before he had to be ready for a service, she must feel it was important.

She opened a drawer and lifted out the small plastic box Matt hated - the one with makeup in it. He groaned internally, but didn’t comment.

“There’s no need for that face,” Maggie said, moving to stand beside him. She seemed calmer now.

“What face?”

“The look like you’re about to be martyred. Here, to protect your vestments.” She threw a threadbare towel at him, and he draped it carefully across his chest.

“Thank you.”

“This is all that man’s fault,” she said, opening a small bottle and upending it quickly onto a cotton ball. “Concealer, first.” She got to work on the bruised side of his face, dabbing ungently.

Matt was completely bewildered. He couldn’t come up with any suspects to fit Maggie’s statement. “What is whose fault?’

“I don’t remember his name. I’m not sure I knew it.” The cotton ball disappeared and she turned away opening a flat compact of foundation.

“You’re going to have to give me more than that.”

She was back, with a brush. “He arrived when you were a boy, out of nowhere, and said he’d help you. Which he did. But then, he abandoned you.”

Oh. “Do you mean Stick?” Matt laughed, bitterly.

“I think he taught you to disregard yourself, that you don’t matter.”

“He didn’t.”

“He was clearly important to you”

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“You always were stubborn. Pig headed.” She gave his temple a last brush. “There, that’s as good as I can make it.” She started packing up her supplies.

Matt peeled off the towel, balling it up and throwing it in a dirty hamper. He stood slowly, put his glasses on and faced her, head slightly bowed, listening intently. For all her snappishness, he got the impression that she cared for, even loved him. It puzzled him. He’d heard the way she spoke to all the children over the years, and warmth wasn’t one of her characteristics. But she was astute.

“I know he changed you,” she continued. “Your father was no saint, and I know you idolised him - probably still do. And you tried to put Stick in that place, for a while.”

Matt shook his head. “Stick was a complicated man, and…” He stopped, thinking about how to phrase it. “And I think he did me more good than harm. But, Maggie, I think you need to know that he didn’t hurt me.”

She laughed, painfully. “I will never agree with that. I don’t know that we made the correct decision, letting him in here, giving him have access to you.”

Matt shook his head, firmly. “You did. I wouldn’t have made it, otherwise. It would have all been too much. The noise alone can be too much at times, even now. You know that.”

She had been wiping her hands on a small cloth, and now she placed it on the tabletop and stepped close to him. She reached up and placed her small hand on his chin, turning his head to the side. “I think he planted some very damaging ideas in that head of yours. When he left, he left a vacuum that you didn’t know how to fill, and it led you here. And here is not your calling. Some of that was my responsibility.” She patted him on the cheek. “But you’re an adult now, and your life is your own responsibility.”

“What’s that line from Spiderman?” Matt said, cocking one eyebrow at her.

“Ha. Funny guy.” She straightened his stole. “Come on, Paul will be looking for you. At least you’re presentable, now.”

They started walking back towards the church. “Into the lion’s den,” Matt said.

“It’s just Mass. You know, Matthew, I like watching you torture yourself even less than you like doing it. Don’t you think it’s time you talked to Paul?”

**_____**

Matt had taken to listening to the choir’s rehearsals from the pews, within their view. It improved the acoustics, he told himself, sitting near the aisle. That was the way the building was designed, after all.

He could tell that some of them were casting furtive looks his way, or at least they had on the first couple of occasions. Quickly, it had become status quo. 

Once or twice, Paul or Maggie or one of the other sisters had joined him. Matt didn’t think it was his imagination that the choir sang more sweetly when they knew they were being observed. Matt paid close attention, knowing that at the end of the rehearsal, Foggy would turn to him and ask for any comment, and usually he could find something small and constructive to offer. Then, after the choristers trickled out, Foggy might invite him for a bite at the diner. Matt usually accepted, against his better judgement. But spending time with Foggy was just easy. 

On this particular afternoon Paul had found Matt as he walked along the cloister, towards the church for rehearsal. It was bitingly cold, and they had hurried into the church, where they found Foggy, slightly flustered, beside the organ console.

“Is anything the matter, Franklin?” Paul asked. Matt let go of Paul’s elbow, and tucked his hands into his sleeves.

“Oh! Hello Fathers.” Foggy sighed. “It’s Sandra. She’s got that horrible cold that’s doing the rounds, so she can’t make rehearsal. And I don’t know how to play an organ. Or how to conduct while playing, for that matter.”

The arrival of the choristers was announced by intermittent blasts of frigid air from the main doors, and the sound of gloves being shed as people entered the relative warmth of the church. 

“I suppose we could try a capella,” Foggy said. He sounded worried.

“I’ll play for you,” Matt said. 

Paul spun sharply to look at him. “You will?”

Matt shrugged. “What could it hurt? Hopefully it will make it easier to practice.”

Foggy bounced on his toes. “Thank you! I’ll get these guys organised and we’ll be ready to start in about five minutes. You won’t need the music so I’ll just put it away…” 

“Father Matt volunteering to help,” Paul murmured. “Miracles do happen.”

“Don’t start,” Matt replied, sliding onto the bench and flexing his fingers.

**_____**

Jess still wouldn’t set foot inside the church, but she did agree to meet Matt, together with Paul, in a nearby diner. She was already seated, facing the door, and when the two priests entered Matt heard her mutter, “Jesus Fucking Christ.” He smothered his smirk, and steered Paul towards her table.

“Hi Jess. You remember Father Lantom?” Matt let go of Paul’s elbow and slid onto the seat opposite Jess, scooting over far enough to give Paul room to sit next to him.

“Miss Jones,” Paul said, nodding.

Jess did something with her face, too subtle for Matt to catch. Paul huffed slightly beside him, leading Matt to conclude that it had been a forced smile.

“So… Fathers. How can I help?” Jess’s tone fell somewhere at the intersection of feigned boredom, anxiety at being faced by two priests in dog collars, and the start of the DTs. She was jiggling her leg under the table.

“We won’t keep you long,” Matt said, smiling. “We’ve got a petty thief. Nothing major, but we can’t afford it as it is.”

Paul had jotted down a list of the missing objects - the bell, cash from tithes (although that was harder to prove), some beautifully embroidered kneeler cushions, a small silver candlestick - and he passed it across the table to her. 

“High roller, your thief,” Jess observed.

“Where would you even get rid of most of these things?” Matt asked. 

“You couldn’t.” Jess sounded distracted, in the way she did when she was mulling over facts, considering possibilities. “They’re too distinctive, aside from the cash. So it’s either fulfilling an order, or some idiot without a clue. Or someone who just wants to be a pain in the ass. You got any enemies?”

“Not to my knowledge,” Paul said.

“I’d hear someone entering the church at an odd hour,” Matt said. Paul made a quiet interrogative noise, so Matt turned to him and shook his head slightly, “Jess knows.”

“You wouldn’t hear them if you were far away, not paying attention, or asleep. You aren’t as much of a hero as you think you are, Murdock,” Jess said. She didn’t give Matt time to protest before she continued. “I’ll get started. I’ll report back to you, Matt, when I’ve got something concrete. Something like this doesn’t take priority. Sorry.”

“And your rate, Miss Jones?”

There was a pregnant pause. Eventually, Jess sighed. “For you, pro bono. Since you do so much…  _ good _ for the community. Or something.” Jess pulled out her phone, then there was the click of a shutter as she photographed the piece of paper Paul had given her. She slid out of her seat and stood, tapping her fingers on the tabletop. “Come round tomorrow night, if you want, Father. It’s been a while since I last saw you.”

“Same here,” Matt said, adjusting his glasses and prompting both Paul and Jess to tip their heads back the way people did when they rolled their eyes. 

Jess chucked a couple of scrunched up bills on the table with a muttered, “Idiot.”

Paul leaned back in his seat and laughed, deep and true.

**_____**

Matt pulled his coat tighter around himself. As well as the lights, they were now having trouble with the heating, and here he was, suffering through it with the worst cold of his life. It was probably the flu, but the upside was that if that killed him off he’d never have to take confession again. He pulled a Kleenex from his pocket and coughed wetly into it. This was his penance, apparently, being stuck here in purgatory with a horrible cold. He massaged the bridge of his nose in a futile attempt at reducing the pressure in his sinuses. Paul was already overdue to relieve him, and every stretching moment was torture.

Footsteps approached, the wood of the booth creaked, and as the curtain was pulled across the curtain rings squealed on the metal rod. 

With his blocked nose and ears, Matt couldn’t be sure who it was who sat down heavily in the next booth. He waited patiently for the person to speak.

There was a deep sigh, then, “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” Foggy.

Matt cleared his throat. “What’s on your mind?” he croaked. 

“Father?” Foggy sounded startled. “You don’t sound well.”

“Just a cold. Please, continue.” Matt’s voice sounded thick and cracked to his own ears.

“Ok. Uh. This is awkward.” Foggy was silent for a long moment. Matt leaned his head back against the cool wood, waiting. “I’ve been having impure thoughts. Saying that makes me feel like a schoolboy, and I know we’ve touched on this before, but… it’s not going away.”

Matt made a noise of encouragement. He couldn’t recall their previous conversation on this topic but it was run of the mill stuff, although less common for a grown man. 

“I’ve been… coveting? Thinking about someone. In a carnal way.”

“That’s perfectly natural,” Matt rasped. “It’s only a problem if she’s married, or otherwise unavailable.”

“Well, yes,” Foggy said. “There’s the rub.”

“Ah,” Matt said, and sneezed violently.

“Bless you.” 

Matt blew his nose on the ratty Kleenex. “You know the commandments. Thou shalt not commit adultery. If she’s married-”

“ _ He’s _ not actually married.” 

“That’s helpful.” So Foggy was queer. Matt didn’t let himself consider his own feelings on that one.

“It’s also against the stance of the church.”

Matt was well aware, knowing that if he himself were outed there would be… concerns. He sighed. He’d really rather listen than talk. “Are you familiar with the story of David and Jonathan?” he asked.

“I am. Yeah.” Foggy was quiet, and Matt swallowed painfully. He could hardly hear anything with his blocked ears, making the world was dull and dense. He shivered, and shrugged lower inside his scarf. “I guess… The Big Guy talks a lot about love and forgiveness, and maybe my big gay crush doesn’t bother him too much.”

Matt tried to make an agreeing noise, and mostly failed. “Have you spent time getting to know each other?” Matt’s curiosity was getting the better of him.

“We have, and he’s a really great guy. We can talk for hours. But he isn’t just any guy. It has to be complicated. Always is for me.” 

“Complicated, how?”

“It’s just never going to happen. It can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Well. Argh.” Foggy thumped his fist lightly against the wooden seat. “How can I put this? He’s sort of… a priest.”

Matt cleared his throat, suddenly extremely uncomfortable. Before he could speak, Foggy started speaking rapidly, unburdening himself.

“I’ve been having dreams. Where we’re together, and I see him naked on the sheets and he’s  _ so beautiful,  _ and he lets himself smile properly, and oh God.” He dropped to a whisper, that Matt was probably not meant to hear but unfortunately was still able to pick up. “His cock. It’s amazing.”

Matt was struck by a sudden and overwhelming coughing fit. He could hear Foggy’s platitudes. “I’m sorry I said anything, Father Lantom. I shouldn’t have. It’s just...” He trailed off.

Foggy thought he was Paul, which meant he was talking about… Matt? Matt was struggling to breathe, and he thumped his chest a couple of times, which did actually help somewhat. When he progressed to mild spluttering, Foggy spoke again. “He’s just doing his job, being all dark and handsome and mysterious. I know it’s not okay to think about him that way, so can we pretend I didn’t? I’ll just say some Hail Marys, and everything will be fine. Do you want some water?”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Matt choked out. “I’m fine.” He wasn’t fine at all. 

“Okay, then,” Foggy said, standing and yanking the curtain aside. Matt put his aching head in his hands as listened as Foggy’s footsteps made quickly for the main door, another pair of footsteps coming from the door to meet him. Foggy stopped dead in his tracks. “Hello… Father Lantom,” he choked out.

“Hello, Franklin,” Paul said, voice calm and dry as ever. “Are you here for confession?” 

“Ah, no. I mean, I’ve already done it. With Father Matt. Although I thought he was you, isn’t that funny! He’s sounding a bit croaky, isn’t he? Sounds like he needs to go to bed. I mean, to sleep. In his bed. Alone. Like priests do. Um, never mind. See you on Sunday!” His footsteps disappeared rapidly out the main doorway. 

Paul walked calmly over to the confessional and knocked lightly against the wood. “Matthew? You awake in there?”

Matt’s heart and mind were racing. He sighed, pushed up to stand, swaying slightly, and pulled aside the curtain. He hoped his mortification didn’t show on his face. “Hi, Paul.”

“Looks like you put the fear of God in our choirmaster.” Paul sounded unfairly amused. 

“I need to go to bed. And we need to fix the lights. I think it’s becoming urgent. See you tomorrow.” Matt grabbed the cane he seldom used in the church and staggered past Paul, crossing the nave and making for his chamber. When he got there he fell down on his bed, burying his face in his pillow to hide his agony of embarrassment.

**_____**

It took Matt a full week to recover from his cold, giving him the perfect excuse to hide away and avoid Foggy. He spent a lot of time sleeping, or skulking in his chamber. Sometimes he picked out a melancholy tune on the piano.

As his cold improved and his ears cleared, he could hear more of the comings and going in the church. He lay in bed listening to the choir practice and realised that it was the first one he’d missed in several weeks. He was still utterly mortified, and assumed that Foggy must be similarly stricken. With a pang of some unnameable feeling, it occurred to him that it was probably the end of their diner dates, and while the feeling was uncomfortable, it was probably for the best, really. 

Matt meditated and prayed. Without so much noise pressing in from all sides he found himself lost more often inside his head. And with that, came a slow, unwilling, moment of clarity. Once it lodged itself, sharply glistening inside his mind, he knew that he could no longer ignore it. Maggie was right, it was time to talk to Paul.

He found Paul in their small shared office, leafing through a book and jotting small notes, muttering to himself as was his habit when sermon writing. Matt sat down at his own desk, his chair turned towards Paul, and leaned back, waiting for him to finish. Eventually the scratching of the pen ceased and Paul turned towards him. “Feeling better, Matthew?”

Matt nodded. “I am better.” He smiled. “Much better.”

“I’m pleased to hear that,” Paul said, the hint of a question in his voice. 

“Have you got a minute? To talk?”

“I’m always here to listen. I’ll even tell you what I think, if you want.”

“I’m sure you will.” Matt plucked the folded, glossy pamphlet from his pocket and held it out.

Paul didn’t move at first, then slowly reached out and took it. He smoothed it out, opening and examining it. After a long moment he asked, “Why Columbia and not NYU?”

Matt shrugged. “No particular reason.”

“When are you thinking of going?”

“The fall semester starts in September.”

“You’ve already applied?”

“A month ago. I wasn’t sure that I wanted it, but now I am.”

Paul leaned back in his chair and exhaled heavily. “You always did enjoy an argument. But, law, Matthew?” 

Matt nodded. “It’s what I want to do. What I’ve always wanted to do, if I’m honest.”

“Honesty. Hmm. At this point, I think it’s expected of me that I urge you not to do this. But I also know that that wouldn’t be fruitful.”

“Not so much.” Matt rubbed his hands over his thighs. “I feel like I’ve let you down.”

“A part of me thinks I let you down, encouraging you towards seminary.”

“No, Father-”

Paul held out a palm, cutting Matt off. “You’ve been miserable almost from the first day we started working together. Promise me one thing, Matthew.” Matt raised his eyebrows, waiting. “Don’t lose track of your morals. I don’t doubt that you could do some good work, as a lawyer, and the Lord can work through you, if you remember to keep him in mind.”

“That’s what I hope. What I believe.”

“I believe so, too,” Paul said, nodding. “Okay, then. How much longer do we have you?”

“I guess that’s up to the Bishop. I. I think I’ll need you to help out there.”

“I imagine so.”

“I’ll leave at the end of April, if I can. I need to do some things before the semester starts in September, sort myself out.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Paul sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees, hands clasped in front of him. “Well, I can’t say I won’t miss you.”

“I’m not going to disappear entirely.”

“No, but this.” Paul gestured between the two of them. “Brotherhood. This will change.”

Matt felt his breath catch in his throat. This would probably be the hardest part of it, striking out on his own.

“So I’d like to pray together now, Father Matthew.”

Matt nodded, clasping his hands and bowing his head, enjoying the warmth of Paul’s hand resting on his shoulder as they prayed, two men of the cloth, for a little longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to SleepyMoritz for beta work and cheerleading.
> 
> Comments make my day.
> 
> This chapter fills the 'He abandoned you' square on my Daredevil Bingo chart.


	5. Chapter 5

Matt knocked on the door. Jess, sprawled on the couch inside, didn’t move. He knocked again. “Jess. Let me in.”

“Fucking bat,” she grumbled, stomping to the door to unsnib the lock. “You look like shit.”

“Wish I could return the compliment.” She threw herself back down on the couch, and Matt joined her. “You wanted good news? Well, you’re not getting it.”

“You haven’t found them?”

“What the fuck do you take me for? Yes I’ve found them. But it’s a kid, Matt. A fucking kid, trying to help feed his family. Fuck’s sake. This world.”

“A kid,” Matt said, flatly. “You’re absolutely certain?”

“Yes.” She leaned forward, scooping half a dozen photos off the coffee table and shuffling through them. “I’ve got his picture, here. The kid also doesn’t know to keep his curtains shut, and the bell is in his bedroom.”

“You’ve taken covert photos of a child in his bedroom?” Matt asked, appalled.

“Jesus Christ. He wasn’t in it when I took them. Look, you wanna know who he is, or not?”

“Hit me.”

“Carl Martino. Age 6. Cute kid. Lives with his mom, two younger siblings and his grandma.”

“Fuck,” Matt said. He put his head in his hands. 

“You know him?” 

“Yeah, I know him. His whole family. His grandpa died recently. Fuck.”

Jess dropped the photos on the coffee table with a quiet splat and slide of glossy paper. “Yeah well, shitty things happen. Just don’t ruin his life, okay?”

“What do you take me for?” Matt said, dropping his hands and turning his face slightly towards Jess.

“A priest.”

“Ha.”

“An idiot who likes to dress up and jump around until someone beats him up.”

“You think I’m going to beat Carl up?”

“You’d better fucking not.”

They were silent for several moments, then out of nowhere Jess said, “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

“Like I tell you everything.”

“You tell me the important things.”

Matt sighed and sat back, and ran his palm across the tatty arm of Jess’s couch. “I might need to stay here. Just for a few weeks.”

“What?”

“Before the semester starts. The law school semester, that is.”

“You’re joking.”

Matt shook his head.

“You’re quitting the hairy sky man thing, and you’re going to be a lawyer?”

Matt nodded. “Well, I’m still going to go to church. Just… not as a priest.”

“Well halle-fucking-lujah.” Jess held her fist out for Matt to bump, which he did, half-hearted. “Not gonna move in with your boyfriend?”

“Jess. Don’t.”

“You’re right. It’s none of my fucking business who you’re fucking.”

Matt groaned. “Jess, I’m not--”

She waved it away. “What’re you going to do about the kid?”

Matt shrugged. “I’ll tell Paul, let him deal with it. Let him demonstrate some forgiveness, show him how to ask for help.” Jess snorted. “I talked to Carl a while ago, though I gave him some good advice. Turns out it wasn’t that great.” He trailed off.

Jess bumped the bottle of Jack against his free hand. “Here you go, not-Father.”

“It’s 11am.”

“You’re breaking your vows. I don’t think a little day drinking is going to make you more damned, Devil-Boy. And yeah, stay as long as you need.”

**_____**

Matt walked down the street, his cane sweeping a path as the flow of pedestrians parted in front of him and closed again behind him. The air was warm on his face and at the open neck of his shirt.

The letter was burning a hole in the pocket of Matt’s jacket. Of course, the Bishop hadn’t deigned to write to him in braille, only print, and having to have someone else read to him the details of his layicising was humiliating. Maggie had unfolded it, her face lifted to his, curiosity evident in every signal her body sent him. Then she had paused and scanned it, holding her breath. After a moment she exhaled, seeming to shrink slightly, and collapsed onto a bench. Then she had started to cry.

Matt hadn’t known how to respond. He had knelt in front of her and cautiously reached out to touch her knee. “Sister?”

She snatched at his hand, squeezing her much smaller fingers around his, and laughed wetly. “I’ve been praying for this, so much.”

“You want me to go?”

“I want you to be happy.” 

Alongside the envelope containing the print letter was another, much thicker and larger, this time with duplicated letters in print and braille. Columbia evidently valued accessability when offering students places at their institution. There was information on where to go to get the support he might require, and information on dorms for post graduate students. Matt still found it hard to believe that he had a place, that his life was going in the direction he’d once imagined as a boy.

“Father Matt?”

Matt paused mid-stride, pivoting towards the voice coming from outside a shop. “Ah, Foggy?” His heart leapt into his throat, but he pushed it down firmly. “How are you?”

“Yeah, it’s me.” Foggy sounded shy, and to be fair they hadn’t exchanged words beyond pleasantries in weeks. “I’m good. Good. Lovely day, isn’t it?”

Matt nodded, allowing himself a half-smile. “It is.”

“It’s nice to see you.”

“You too.” Too nice.

“This, uh, this is my family’s store,” Foggy said, gesturing to the building behind them. 

“Oh,” Matt said. “The butcher’s right?”

“Yeah. I think I told you about it. How mom wants me to take over but I’m not super keen?” Matt nodded, smiling. He’d heard this. Several times. In detail. “Yeah. Yeah, I thought I had. Mmmm.”

“Mmmm,” Matt agreed. “So.”

“I haven’t seen you at church for a while. Is everything okay?”

Matt shrugged uncomfortably, hands adjusting and readjusting their grip on his cane. “Everything is great, thank you. But I’ve left Clinton Church. As a priest, anyway. So it’s just plain Matt, now.”

“Really?” A bell jangled and Foggy stepped aside as someone came out of the shop. “Here, let’s get out of the way.” Foggy took his elbow and pulled Matt gently to his left. 

Slight as the gesture was, Matt found it irritating, and he shrugged out of Foggy’s grasp. He didn’t like being manhandled by other people. “Father Lantom didn’t say anything?” he asked.

“No.”

“I didn’t really want to make a thing of it. But, I’m,” He thought of the letters in his pocket, and searched for the right words. “I’m exploring other options at the moment.”

“Oh.” Foggy stuffed his hands in his pocket, shoulders rising slightly. “I guess that explains the street clothes.”

A fire engine roared down the street, letting out a loud blast from its siren and causing them both to jump. Matt tipped his head, following its progress. Then Foggy was speaking again.

“Look, I haven’t had the chance to apologise. And I want to. Apologise, that is. I’m sorry for what I said--”

“Please don’t.”

“But--”

“Don’t. I can’t.”

Foggy made a small, annoyed noise. “I get that it was all kinds of inappropriate, and just plain embarrassing.”

“It’s not that Foggy. There’s nothing to apologise for.”

“And yet, I think there is.”

“I can’t have this conversation.”

“Well, on the street isn’t the best. You hungry? I could show you the shop, or we could go somewhere else.”

Matt shook his head. “That won’t help.”

“I’d like to go back to being friends. Don’t you? I thought we were getting on pretty well, for a while there.”

“No.”

“What?”

Matt sighed. “My life is complicated. Believe me, you don’t want to be my friend. I need to… just be myself for a while. It’s not you, it’s me.”

“Of course it is,” Foggy said. “Story of my life.”

“It  _ is. _ I’ve got my own things to do, things I’m working on, and you don’t need to get caught up in that.”

“You know, F-, I mean Matt, in all the time we spent together, you never really told me anything about you. Is it because you can’t trust me?”

“It’s not about you. I don’t trust anyone.” Matt turned to go. “I’ve got an appointment. Goodbye, Foggy.”

“What the fuck, man?”

When he got to the end of the block, Foggy was still standing motionless outside the store.    
  


**_____**

In the end, it had been easy to leave. Matt had packed up his meagre possessions and moved them from the dungeon into a corner of Jess’s apartment. He’d landed a pre-law internship, God apparently approving of his new plan, and spent the summer reading everything about the law he could get his hands on. He alternated his evenings between patrolling and drinking with Jess. Sometimes she had company, and he would stay out through the night, perched on a rooftop and listening to the sounds of the city he loved. Sometimes he’d curl up in the corner at Fogwell’s in a blanket he’d left there for the purpose. He would to sneak in early, padding around quietly while he tidied himself up and dressed before heading to the office. 

Once, he ended up with Jess’ friend Trish, back in her high rise condo. He could hear the resonance of metal reinforcing in the walls. While Trish disappeared into her bedroom to change into ‘something more comfortable’, Matt wandered over to the wall of windows. He reached out and touched the glass. It felt rigid, unyielding, thicker than usual. He wondered what would make a woman like Trish feel so unsafe in her own home. Trish re-entered the room and Matt dropped his hand and turned away from the window, focusing instead on her.

“Enjoying the view?” she asked.

“Unfortunately not,” he said. “But this, this I can enjoy.” He cupped her hip in his palm, feeling the slip of silky fabric over her smooth skin. She was lean, her bones near the surface. Jess had mentioned that she felt pressure to look good at all times.

She pressed close to him. She was a little shorter than him, and nosed under his jawline. “Are you sure you want to do this?” 

He breathed in the scent of her hair. “Is that a serious question? I’m here, aren’t I?”

She pulled back, her head tilting in the manner people adopted when they were looking at him. “Yeah, I know. But didn’t you… Take vows?”

Matt laughed. “Vows which I’ve well and truly broken. I don’t think I can be any more damned than I already am.”

“Okay, then.” She kissed him, lightly. “Want a drink?”

“Please.”

Trish’s bed was far more comfortable than Jess’ couch, or a rooftop, and Matt found himself there several more times.

There were no responsibilities now, no nosy Sisters, no particular expectations on him other than to dress neatly and look busy all day. He couldn’t quite say that he felt happy, but he felt… lighter. The only thing he really missed was the piano. Paul had invited him back to play any time, but he didn’t feel like it was time for that, yet. He wasn’t sure that it ever would be.

For once in his life, he didn’t put any pressure on himself, beyond learning what he could. He knew that law school would be demanding. But he also knew how to advocate for himself to gain accessible resources, and he already had a degree so he knew how college operated. He’d opted for a shared dorm, figuring that it would make it harder to slip out as Daredevil. He’d need to curtail his extramural activities if he wanted to get through Columbia Law.

The summer was long, hot and sticky. The heat didn’t improve Jess’s mood, and neither of them liked being in each other’s space all the time. He’d planned to save as much money as he could, but after the Jack Daniel’s bill, there wasn’t a lot left over. 

Then the summer ended, and so did his internship. And Matt found himself slinging a duffel bag over his shoulder, and heading uptown. 

He’d already had a tour of his dorm, and knew where he was headed. Still, he attracted the sort of attention that he so often did, receiving several offers of assistance as he made his way through the halls. He had an enthusiastic escort the last few feet to his dorm room, only shaking his helper off when he had a hand on the doorhandle.

He knocked on the door, and opened it. “Excuse me, is this room 312?”

Foggy, on the bed, lifted his head. For several moments, both of them were frozen. Then Matt walked all the way in and closed the door behind him. He made no pretence of searching for the empty bed, throwing his duffel onto it then sitting down on the end, facing the other bed. “Hi, Foggy.”

“Hi, Matt. Who are you looking for?”

“This is my room. Apparently you’re my roommate?”

“Oh. I guess so.” A pause. “So, you’re at Columbia. What are you studying?”

“Law.”

“Me too.” Foggy sounded less golden than usual. “You just threw your bag on the bed, like you knew where it was.”

Matt nodded.

“So, what, you fake the blind thing?”

“No. I’m really blind.”

“You know,” Foggy said, flipping his laptop lid closed and placing it on his desk. “I think this is a really terrible arrangement.” He picked up a stress ball off the bed, and started squeezing it.

“Foggy.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry for how I spoke to you, on the street that day.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

“And I owe you an explanation.”

Foggy nodded. “Yeah, I think you do.”

“Okay.” Matt took a deep breath and rubbed his hands along his thighs. Then he pulled his sweater sleeves over his hands. “The short version is that I was a lousy priest. I hated it and I was depressed. So I quit. And as for the other thing… I’ve got enhanced senses and I had some training as a kid in how to fight, and now I’ve got a bit of a night time habit.”

“A night time habit.”

Matt nodded.

“That’s what causes the bruises, the split lips,” Foggy said, flatly.

Matt nodded again.

“So what is it? Fight Club?”

“I’m not in Fight Club.”

“I was joking, but okay.”

“Throw something at me.”

“I’m not doing that.”

“That ball in your hand. It’s soft.”

Foggy’s face turned down towards his hands, then back up at Matt. “How do you know I’ve got a ball?”

“Short answer? I can hear it.”

“Fine.” Foggy lobbed the ball quickly at Matt, and Matt caught it in one hand. “I don’t know what I’m meant to say,” Foggy said, quietly.

“You don’t need to say anything. But if it’s okay, I’d like to buy you a coffee. And you can ask me what you want and I’ll try to answer it.” 

Foggy nodded, slowly. “Okay. Okay. I’d like that. I nodded, by the way.”

“Yeah.”

“You knew that?”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“One more thing, before we go,” Matt said. He took a deep breath. “Last time I saw you… You didn’t need to apologise. I mean, it was unexpected and you thought I was Paul and I’m sorry about that.”

“That wasn’t your fault.”

“No, but you didn’t need to be embarrassed. You don’t need to be.” Matt shrugged. “I’m not even a priest, anymore.”

“Are you one of those closeted priests?”

Matt shrugged again. “I’m not  _ gay _ , but I’m not straight, either.”

“Nice one.” Foggy held out his fist. “Can you tell what I’m doing now?”

Matt gave Foggy a fistbump, and his real smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you thought in the comments. And SleepyMoritz has told me that this needs a Matt/Foggy epilogue, so let me know if that's something you'd like to read.
> 
> Thanks again to Sleepy for the encouragement, cajoling and excellent suggestions.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my beta, SleepyMoritz, who's good at talking shit and keeping me going.
> 
> Comments are wonderful!


End file.
